


The Lady of Martritz

by sambharsobs



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/F, MercedesWeekend2020, Rapunzel AU, the homoeroticism of knight-lady dynamics, the lady of shalott au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:21:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24433489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sambharsobs/pseuds/sambharsobs
Summary: The Lady of Martritz is content enough to sew the sights around her tower, content enough to keep the curse at bay. There are fields of rye and beds of flowers, strong trees and excitable rivers, the songs of the farmers and kisses of lovers, charming her stay.There's little happiness to be had, but there's little sadness, too, and it suits her just as well.She wonders what it is about women in towers that attracts knights.For #MercedesWeekend2020
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Mercedes von Martritz
Comments: 13
Kudos: 60





	The Lady of Martritz

**Author's Note:**

> based on [the lady of shalott](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45359/the-lady-of-shalott-1832) by lord alfred tennyson, and rapunzel because this is self-indulgent and i couldnt resist

**Part I**

A gust of wind picks up, tickling through the fields of rye and wheat. Farmers reaping the grain clutch their hats as the air playfully sashays towards the river, kissing the water-lilies before tempting the lush trees sprouting proudly among the fields.

Yellow, green, red, drooping and erect – the trees stand unamused at the wind’s antics. Shades of brown bark stand firmly against rustling blades of grass, soft and inviting and excited to grow. The river sloshes around, curving and leaping and jumping, youthfully confident and recklessly free.

Growing all around the tower are the flowers – roses, lilies, lavenders, daffodils, daisies and carnations. Smudges of red and pink and purple and white and yellow and orange bloom on a bed of varied leaves and stems, broken only by long, grey stone. The tower stands as an island in a lake of perfume.

The farmers see the wind curiously wait at the window at the top of the tower, and sigh affectionately. Did it not know that the only being allowed in the tower was the Lady of Martritz?

Villagers whisper stories about her, of course. She’s a fairy, some say, kept in the tower to prevent her from wreaking havoc in the village. Or perhaps she’s a witch, banished after casting a spell too wicked for her coven. Children tremble, thinking of a ghoul chained only by the urge to haunt and scream.

The Lady of Martritz, in reality, is nothing like that.

She sews, blue eyes mirroring a clear sunny sky. Long, blonde locks of hair tumble over her shoulder and spill to the stone floor, curling and dodging the sparse furniture in the room, tumbling down the stairs and pooling around the kitchen.

She sews, soft smile gracing her gentle face as she sees a group of children approach the tower fearfully, mumbling prayers to the Goddess to preserve them. A light, airy voice hums a ditty as she folds flour in itself, music and smells mixing together for only her to enjoy.

She sews, to hold the curse, beset on her to bind her hands to her needle and create beautiful meters of cloth, lest a horror unlike that ever seen before is unleashed.

The fabric in her hands, twirled gracefully with deft fingers, shapes itself into a tapestry or decorative blouse. All that she sees around her – the flowers and rye, the trees and grass, the villagers and their emotions – spun into a needle that dances through fabric.

Fabric picked up by the merchant who calls himself her step-father, sold to the nobility salivating for the latest adornment for their walls or their flesh. Gold slips into greedy hands, hands which trapped The Lady of Martritz as a witch curled over her frame and whispered horrible words that bound her hands to sew, to sew, to sew.

**Part II**

Her days are filled with idleness. There’s little happiness to be had from rising with the sun, baking fresh cakes, brushing her long, thick hair, gazing out into the fields, and sewing. But there’s little sadness from it either, and it suits her just as well.

The days leach into each other – she only knows the difference when she sees the colour of the leaves shifting, from green to yellow to red to nothing – and are filled with the scent of cinnamon or lavender, rather than the sounds of screams and cries.

She’s solitary as the wind hums past her ears inquisitively, as the farmer’s songs tickle the corner of her lips. She’s alone as she gazes up at the moon, bathed in a silver glow that takes her closer to the Goddess. She’s by herself as she sees lovers twirl and dip each other among the flowers.

But that’s not to say she has no company at all, of course. There’s Annie, to whom she writes long letters to, and the children of the orphanage, to whom she stitches clothes from scrap cloth. All collected by her father at the end of each month, after dropping a letter from Annie to pour over for four weeks or thank-you cards that would be pinned up to hide frosty stone walls.

And she has her fair share of guests, interestingly enough. Her first guest is a young noble with short, sunset-orange hair. He shouts his name proudly to her. Is the lady trapped in the tower? He can save her, he can help her down, he can protect her.

The Lady of Martritz giggles into her hand before calling back to him, “But I am protected here.”

Since he asks, she tells him. Her father has bound her here, to nurture fields of cloth for him to reap the rewards. The noble’s indignation and horror is loudly proclaimed and exclaimed, and she can only smile at his response. He blurs into the sunset as he rides off on his proud pony, both heads held high.

She wonders what it is about a woman in a tower that attracts knights.

He returns when the leaves turn lush and green, and the farmers stop more to wipe away sweat than admire their harvest. His trot is proud and words are satisfied as he waves a letter in the air, claiming that this evidence will put an end to her step-father’s tyranny. His words, not hers.

There are parts of this that he understands, and parts that he doesn’t, so she accepts the letter by tossing down a basket tied to a string, and appeals to the part of him that does understand.

“A true noble forges their own path, no matter what lies in their way, is it not?”

But as he rides off, she wonders if he has understood what she means, or what he wants her to mean.

Her second guest is an artist, or a merchant, or a knight. She’s not sure because he’s not sure either, and spots him setting up his easel and canvas in the shadow of her tower, brush in hand to capture falling leaves all around them.

The sunlight strikes his glasses as he looks up. His words are jumbled with confusion and hesitant with anxiousness, but he asks about her needle and thread. The Lady of Martritz smiles at his choice of words when he asks her how she isn’t sewing at that very moment.

“It’s not about stopping, but wanting to.”

She thinks it’s ironic, when the bespectacled blonde boy paralysed between his duty and dreams asks her why she doesn’t want to be free.

It’s easy to smile along with the lovers when they kiss under the moonlight. It’s simple to hum along with the music from the village. It’s light to watch the children chase and catch each other, tumbling on the grass with joy.

The view from her window is varied and deep, and she can see freedom well enough – she revels in the sight. How would she go about containing that easy, simple lightness, what would she do with all of that?

She remembers her mother’s apologies before she leaves with her step-father, and her brother’s peaceful, sleeping face before she leaves with her mother.

The Lady of Martritz turns the question back at the artist-merchant-knight, and smiles as he fumbles and drops a paintbrush.

Once he’s sketched the flowers and farmers and river and rye, he packs up his easel and canvas and paints and brushes. Fearfully, shakily, nervously, he tells her that she shouldn’t be scared of freedom.

She gives him her assurances, and watches him push up his glasses and stumble away, thinking that freedom was not what she feared at all.

Lavenders can grow beside carnations, willow can grow alongside oak. Rivers can flood the lands to nourish them while also sloshing towards its destination. The sun can exist alongside the moon, and wind can exist alongside stillness. But it was better to record those sights rather than ponder too much on them, so she sits down to sew, to sew, to sew.

**Part III**

The air is sweet with the smell of cinnamon buns when she meets her third, and by rule most charming, visitor.

Most trees have abandoned their adornments, bare and brown and boldly standing on the barren soil, and the wind has started to shed its youthful warmth for a crankier, sharper chill.

“The lady must excuse me,” she calls, and her voice is boyish and firm with propriety, “My name is Ingrid Brandl Galatea. I am a squire to Ser Catherine, from the Order of Seiros. Please forgive my intrusion.”

Resting her needle on the table, she peers over the lip of her windowsill. The Lady of Martritz can focus on nothing else but the hard line of her shoulders, the firmness of her back, and the bounce of a golden braid as she bows.

“Not at all,” she whispers, stolen by the wind, so she tries again. “I’ve not had such a graceful visitor in many moons.”

Her squawk travels up the spire and paints a delighted colour onto her cheeks. Toying with the edge of her tunic for a moment, the squire looks up again.

“I am a knight in training,” she says, again. “If the lady requires any assistance, um…she need only speak it.”

“Won’t you take tea with me?”

A beat, where the wind is frozen with excitement, and the girl says, “If-If that is the lady’s desire, I shall oblige.”

Something dances through her fingers at the response. Something buzzes through her mind as she turns away. Something tickles her cheeks as she throws her hair over the window-sill. Something tugs at her chest when she feels a tug of her hair.

Agonising moments, and there’s a hand at the window-sill, and a sturdy form vaults over. The Lady of Martritz has sewn yards of verdant pastures and thickets, yet nothing compares to the wide green eyes beholding her now. Lovers lie in the soft, green grass and sigh at the clear, blue sky, she’s sewn it before.

Lithe shoulders bear a leather overcoat and soft shirt. The youthful swell of her cheek is slighted only by the way her sweet lips part to pant. She’s just shorter than her, but she’s close enough to touch, now, and her fingers twitch in a way that would ruin a perfect stitch.

“Hi,” she says, breathless.

“Hi,” she says, breathlessly.

Fingers bearing callouses come to cover her heart, and the knight-in-training bows, deeply. “The lady has my thanks for accepting me into her abode. And if I may say…” She rises, and swallows, neck tightening and easing as the movement slowly crawls down slender muscle. “The lady was incorrect, earlier. Your poise and your fashion speak of your grace, far better than mine.”

Her face is flushed, warmer than the winter heath, and she knows it’s from her trek up stone, nothing else. She fumbles for her handkerchief, holds it out to her, and she feels the pull, and resists.

“Ah,” sighs the knight-in-training, a soft huff that reaches out to tickle her throat. She presses the cloth to her nose. “It seems as though I was mistaken. The lady’s grace goes far beyond what I thought.” Her words are shy like the new buds of spring. “How the lady scented her 'kerchief to smell so sweet, I shall never know. But you have my admiration, nevertheless.”

The birds are gone for the winter, but their songs flood all around her.

“Won’t you tell me about yourself?” she finds herself saying, words rushing to her lips like the bubble of an excitable spring. “I’m so very curious. What are your likes, your favourite books, about your childhood, the sweets you like – anything at all!”

Gorgeous and shy, a blush pink and bright flood her cheeks, and she giggles – the sound is high and light and muted and awkward, ringing through her room and caressing the stone until they melt, surely, as she is now.

“I confess, I am not used to such things, but I am at the lady’s command,” she says, smiling.

“Please, call me Mercedes,” she says, and the winter feels far, far away.

The entourage Ingrid has come with is here for a few more weeks, she tells Mercedes, as they sip their tea. Her hands, rough and calloused from training, are unused to the delicate lace of tablecloth and soft curve of porcelain. They bump and shake the careful maze of crockery, and Mercedes want little more than to reach out and steady them, and steady herself.

When the knight-in-training leaves that night, full up with cakes and tea and laughter and stories, she holds out the handkerchief, but Mercedes shakes her head. “You may return it to me on the morrow,” she whispers, biting back her smile and her hope.

A huff of laughter, and a shining nod.

Ingrid comes to see her when the sun floats down the horizon and the moon peeps out inquisitively. She calls for her to throw down her hair, and Mercedes obliges, watching the way her tresses tumble and dance and arch down the tower, eager to welcome her first.

First her cinnamon buns, then her strawberry puff pastries, then her apple pies, then her chocolate cakes, and then... She inhales them all in moments, eyes round and warm with happiness, exclaiming thanks and praise and apologies all at once, close enough to touch.

They whisper secrets and giggle stories, and Mercedes knows that only her father is allowed in here, close enough to touch. Still Ingrid visits her in the evenings, even picking up the needle and thread with clumsy fingers to help her sew.

Her stitches are awkward and nervous and stiff and lovely, and Mercedes hides them in a drawer beside the letter.

Every time, as the moon yawns lazily, she bids her adieu, and every time, as the stars blink sleepily, she holds out the handkerchief. Every time, she marvels at the way the moonlight curves with her lips, and asks her to return it the next day. It’s on one of those starry nights does she share her dreams of knighthood, smile matching the glittering sky.

“I am no tool to further my family’s fortunes. I’m a knight at heart, regardless of what my father desires,” she says, and the words blind her.

Pain wants to be shared, especially to a sympathetic and understanding ear, and her fingers cramp and hurt more these days. Ingrid listens and remembers and asks questions as she tells her, brow earnest and resolute, even when still.

“Sounds like you need a strategy to silence your father,” she says, and their tea-table transforms into a battle-map, cups and saucers and plates and spoons but her soldiers and battalions to command. “It seems the best course of action would be to consider severing all ties from family and running away.”

Would she tie the month’s tapestries together and to the bed, pull her close to scale down the tower together? Would the grass and roses feel as soft as her gaze and blush? Would she draw her onto her steed and kiss her gently, and the curse shatters, as these things go?

“We don’t need to go that far,” she says instead, and covers the tea set with a white cloth.

That night, when Ingrid rises to leave and holds out her handkerchief, Mercedes reaches out to hold rough hands, and asks her to return two days later. Ingrid’s hands turn to clasp hers, there’s but soft cotton between their skin, and promises to return two days later.

One day later, when her father comes to collect the cloth, she asks him if she could be freed from the tower, for the world has more that she can sew for him, and she wants to see it and feel it. But then his eyes narrow with anger.

Two days later, when Ingrid comes to see her in the evening, she screams as hired swords spring up from the shadows and strike. Her begging is hoarse and broken as the knight-in-training refuses to leave and stands her ground, but eventually retreats when her blood mixes with soil, and gallops into the sunset without her.

Three days later, when she opens swollen eyes to an evening glow and empty room, The Lady of Martritz picks up her needle, and reminds herself to sew, to sew, to sew.

**Part IV**

Each season has a corresponding pastry – strawberry shortcakes in spring with the blooming flowers, cherry pie in summer with the sparkling sun, apple turnovers in autumn with the fluttering leaves, and persimmon pudding with the falling snowflakes.

The seasons scurry and chase each other like the village children, and The Lady of Martritz watches until the children grow up enough to help their fathers on the fields. The soil is obstinate after the easy winds of autumn, and resist their ploughs and rakes in preparation for the chilly winter.

A gust of air tickles the edges of her short hair sadly, and she can do little more than smile. Her father’s blade had been cruel, spiteful, and angry, but her sewing scissors had smoothened rough edges and eased away torn ends. The village women picnicking nearby sport the same style, and she squints to see if they wear any accessories.

There’s little happiness five years later, but there’s little sadness either, and it suits just as well.

The Lady of Martritz selects a needle from her pincushion, and idly twirls it through the cloth. She needn’t look outside to recreate the scenes around her, for the seasons stay the same for her, pulling familiar tricks as a fool does to comfort their friend. So it’s easier still, to close her eyes and remember the spring bloom, despite the earth freezing all around her. Distantly, she can hear the beat of wings, and wonders if a falconer has released his bird, only to have it return later.

Perhaps that’s the nature of longing, to yearn for the embrace of summer during the ache of winter.

When her eyes are closed, she can make the dim glow of the sun into beams of warm sunshine, the crumble of dry leaves into lush foliage, the mourning of a funeral procession into the dances of a festival.

They drink in the images, like the drought-riddled earth laps at timid spring showers. Coarse sand and sparse water smooth and melt to form clay, and they hold each other tight and close and together. She can hold the cracks together, as long as her eyes stay closed.

A shadow falls on her, and she opens her eyes, only for her breath to catch.

Silhouetting the weak winter warmth is a strong, celestial shape, and she blinks away the blinding brightness.

An ivory steed with pearly wings floats at her window like a cloud, mane cotton-white and tail soft as a daisy. The rider is clad in verdant gambesons in all the shades of the forest, and a dark green cape shudders in the air. Silver greaves, breastplate, pauldrons and gloves shine and shimmer and sparkle even in the sickly sunlight. But who needs the sun when golden hair dances with the wind, more resplendent than all the precious metal in the world, bright enough to turn the heads of sunflowers and thicker than honey cascading from a dipper?

She blinks, to ward off the spirit that conjures the image, and then, when nothing changes and the colours begin to pool and blur together, she blinks again.

Ingrid extends her hand out, and says, “My apologies for making you wait, Mercedes.”

The wind, now commanded by the knight before her, hushes and stills in anticipation, as she glides to the vision at her window, awe-struck.

There’s an excited cry from far below, and she tears her gaze away to see a few small figures among the flowers. There’s Annie, crying out and jumping, and beside her is a silver-haired boy with a quiver at his waist, flanked by a red-head on a brown steed and a dark-haired man with his arms crossed. They’re armed to the teeth, weapons and armour peeping out of their bodies like an over-stuffed pincushion.

She turns back to Ingrid, still patiently holding out her hand. The youthful curve of her cheek has hardened into a strong jaw, and her eyes burn with a tempered, controlled flame. Her brow is easy with earnestness, and she realises Ingrid is waiting for her, waiting for her to take the step. There’s a handkerchief tied to her arm.

She closes her eyes, and Mercedes _wants_.

Tremors shake the foundations of the tower and petals of roses, lilies, lavender, daffodils, daisies and carnations quiver with anticipation. The earth tears open, revealing a claw that rakes delicate stems and reaps the soil viciously. Mercedes grasps a warm hand and is pulled onto the flying beast, as the scaly beast beneath them pulls itself out of the ground.

When Ingrid drops her off beside the others, she hears the beast cry, and tears her gaze away from soft pastures to red-raw claws and mottled black skin. It turns its face towards them, visage hidden by a golden mask frozen in a horrified expression, with red tassels hanging below. When measured to the tips of the red spokes on its back, the beast is three times the size of a human, and Mercedes shudders. Perhaps—

The red-head charges towards the beast with a roar of his own, twirling and spinning a lance into a leg, and the dark-haired man vanishes, only to reappear beside the other leg and hack into it with two blades. Roaring, the beast’s thick tail flicks angrily, and tears a gash into her tower, stone crumbling down. The archer and Annie step forward together, and like a summer storm, unleash a rain of arrows and fierce winds.

Ingrid steadies her with a determined gaze, and uses Annie’s gusts of air to launch herself and her stead into the air like a firework. She curves and curls into the beast, tearing apart skin like incorrect seams. Mercedes clasps her hands and prays, wishing the Goddess’ divine protection on all of them, and perhaps there's some magic in her too, not just a curse.

Annie’s clever spells shatters the mask, and the swordsman buries his blade in the velvety interiors of the beast’s jaw to tear at soft skin. As the beast wobbles, they dart away, and it crashes into the bed of flowers, now only the shade of crimson roses.

There’s a silence, and no more emerge.

Cheers from the red-head fill the air, Annie leaps and sings, the archer sighs and collects himself, and the swordsman grumbles to his blade. Relief and happiness flood through her body, singing to each nerve and cell, until she’s surely going to burst from it, the wind excitedly dancing around them.

Ingrid lands beside her and dismounts, her eyes shining like the starlight under which they would meet. The sun is setting now, throwing red and pink and white and yellow and orange onto blue and purple skies and indigo clouds, and Ingrid waits.

Mercedes steps forward to kiss her, and she laughs, she laughs, she laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> happy international simp 4 miss mercedes weekend folks, im on [twitter](https://twitter.com/sadsambharsobs) screaming about her
> 
> please check out [tad's](https://twitter.com/tadpoleboba/status/1341623390507921408?s=19) incredible art on this fic, truly we are not worthy


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